


When Her Back Hits the Mat

by lightsaroundyourvanity



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Sparring, Volume 7 (RWBY), they're horny but like their hearts are horny, weiss and ruby make cameos too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsaroundyourvanity/pseuds/lightsaroundyourvanity
Summary: Blake and Yang have a heated sparring match.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 25
Kudos: 472





	When Her Back Hits the Mat

A return to training had been one of the more unexpected and pleasant changes since arriving in Atlas. They’d all been fighting nonstop, but the practice, the honing, the grind; that had disappeared in wisps and scraps since the end of Beacon, and it takes throwing Yang back into the ring for her to realize how much she’s missed it. Still; Ironwood, Qrow, Winter, and the students at Atlas Academy had kept RWBY on their feet.

“Sloppy,” snaps Winter. She stands in her formal duelist pose, her back ramrod straight, and Yang sees lines of Weiss in it—except where Weiss moves with the graceful precision of a dancer, Winter’s style is all military.

And she’s kicking Yang’s ass with it.

Yang widens her stance and grits her teeth. When Winter had requested a one-on-one spar, she’d agreed in a heartbeat. Sure, Winter drilled them hard, but fighting her had to be like fighting Weiss without the defiant creativity, right? Yang could handle that.

Wrong. Yang’s been in this match five minutes, and she’s flagging. Winter can _move,_ sharp and sure, stepping out of the way of punches and making Yang feel clumsy and irritated. Yang lunges for Winter, and Winter sidesteps it with deceptive ease. Yang comes running to a halt, spins on her heel, and comes at Winter again. Her leg unfurls in two quick kicks, one to Winter’s knees, another to her middle, but Winter parries both with the flat of her sword.

“You’re leaving yourself wide open,” Winter chides.

“So’s your mother,” Yang grumbles. She can feel her temper rising within her and hears the ghost of Tai training her on Patch. _Don’t let your temper get the better of you. Take a breath._

Yang takes a breath. She settles.

Winter’s precision makes her deadly, but it makes her predictable, too. She’s polished, but she rarely deviates. She can use that, Yang thinks. Winter settles back into her defensive pose, and Yang’s eyes follow the sway of it, calculating. She runs at Winter again and feints throwing a punch. When Winter parries, Yang ducks under her reach and pummels Winter in the stomach with a flurry of lightning quick jabs. Winter grunts and is knocked back and Yang advances, a smirk snaking its way over her lips. Grabbing the upper hand with an uppercut – Yang loves that journey for herself.

“Come on, Yang! Take her down!” Ruby shouts from the sidelines.

Beside her, Weiss sniffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You must be dreaming. Winter has this under control.”

“No way! Yang is about to kick your sister’s _butt_! Release the dragon! Release the dragon!”

“Release the dragon?” Blake asks dryly.

Ruby shrugs. “Just something we’re trying out.”

“I _hate_ it,” Weiss puts in.

“Weiss!” Ruby slings an arm around Weiss’s neck. “Don’t be jealous! We’ll find you a super cool nickname too!”

“You’re missing the showdown,” says Blake. Her eyes have been glued to the ring the whole time. More accurately, they’ve been glued to Yang. Her wild blonde hair has been swept into a high ponytail for the mock battle. Sweat glistens at her collarbones, along her finely sculpted arms and shoulders, and her orange tank top has ridden up enough to reveal the hard muscles of her abs. Blake is staring. She can’t help herself. She can’t help not wanting to help herself. Yang is spectacular.

Yang’s leg unfurls in a dramatic kick. She’s showing off, just a little, boasting for her little sister, trying her best to make Blake blush. She draws just short of tossing her hair and a wink towards Blake – but only just, and only because she’s positive that Winter would cut her into pieces for the insouciance if she dared. Still, there’s an extra flair to Yang’s movements, to her footwork, to the way she rolls her shoulders before throwing another punch. And hey, she has the upper hand. It’s her gods given right to show off a little right now. 

Maybe she’s spoken too soon, maybe she's just slipping, because on Yang’s next kick, Winter sheathes her sword quicker than lightning and catches Yang’s ankle between her crossed wrists. Yang tries to twist out of the hold, but she’s stuck, and Winter knows it. A small, savage smile crosses her face as she uses Yang’s weight and her struggle to disentangle herself against her, and Yang hits the ground.

Yang wonders: Is it her cockiness that gets the better of her, or is it Blake, standing at the sidelines with her short hair tied halfway up. She’d been working out before Yang and Winter’s duel began, and she still has a towel slung draped around her neck, messy strands of loose hair framing her face. And Yang’s heart stutters when she looks at her for too long. Blake’s presence swallows everything else in the room, even Yang’s ongoing sparring match, and she hits the ground.

Yang scrambles backwards to try and regain her footing, but Winter looms before her, tall and pale and slim, sword shimmering in her fist again, and Yang knows that she’s already lost. She’s barely on her knees before she feels the gentle tap of a rapier underneath her chin.

“Yield.”

Yang peers up at Winter through her bangs. Winter prods with the sword again, forcing Yang to tilt her chin up. She looks Winter over and it’s a study in low angles: Winter’s thighs are braced, her shoulders back. She looks triumphant. She’s _stunning,_ Yang thinks. Smug victory suits Winter, the way she actually lets it light up her eyes, play over her lips, the way a silvery tendril of hair falls into her eyes and she doesn’t bother to flick it back. If Yang had to lose...

“Alright, okay.” Yang holds up her hands and concedes. “You win. This round.”

Winter softens and offers her hand to Yang. Yang takes it and lets herself be pulled to her feet. On the sidelines, Weiss pumps her fists and cheers.

“I knew you could do it, Winter! You can’t keep a Snowette down!”

Immediately, Ruby dissolves into giggles. “What was _that_?!”

Weiss freezes. “I thought we were trying to do nicknames?”

“Only good ones!”

As Weiss huffs, as she and Ruby fall into easy banter and wander away, Blake’s attention drifts back to the ring, where Winter still grips Yang’s forearm, and Yang looks a little bit dazed. Blake squints. Was Yang actually _blushing_ , or just flushed still from the fight?

Unexpected, hot jealousy spikes in Blake’s chest. She crushes it down, but it’s still _there_ , and that’s something to think about. It’s not _rational –_ but seeing Yang look at anyone else like they might have hung a few stars drives Blake a little crazy. It’s not like Winter would ever date a kid like Yang – but the idea that Yang might have scrawled Winter’s name in a diary somewhere is driving Blake a little crazy. Not that Yang would ever write in a diary. Or that it was any of Blake’s business. Or like they were _together_ together, but—

Blake is a going a little crazy.

Because it’s not like they’re not together, isn’t it? They take every opportunity to touch, sit together at mealtimes with their thighs pressed together, fall asleep in each other’s arms. Yang looks at Blake like she’s hung more than a few stars, and when Blake sees Yang in the mornings, unguarded and sleepy, slouched on her feet, her heart overflows with an impossible well of fondness and love.

Blake always feels so steady with Yang, warm and perfectly sure, but it’s the electric attraction that gilds everything she does these days. It drives Blake to find new excuses to touch Yang, new reasons to spend more time with her.

(It’s the same stuff that sent Blake chasing after Yang in the Emerald Forest, to share dreams and sidelong glances and books about people with two souls, but there’s purpose to it now; there’s clarity.)

And now, it’s driving Blake to step towards Yang, as Winter shakes Yang’s hand and walks away. “Nice match,” Blake says casually, like the sight of Yang’s sweat defined biceps aren’t setting off three thousand emotions inside her.

Yang grins. She’s still got streaks of adrenaline fading through her, and it makes her bold. “Like what you see?”

Blake raises her eyebrows. “You’re awfully proud of yourself for someone who just lost a match.”

“Oh. That.” Yang shakes her hair out of her face. “Another three moves and I would have had her. I basically let her win.”

“Sure you did.”

“Are you doubting me? My own partner?” Yang jabs at Blake playfully. “I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, you look all broken up about it.” Blake takes a swipe back at Yang, but Yang bounces back on the balls of her feet and she misses.

“Is that all you got, Belladonna?” Yang asks. “Come on. Kick my ass.”

Blake falls for it because it’s Yang, and she’ll fall for any part of Yang, anything she does or says or thinks. But there’s also the challenge to what Yang says, how she’s standing – and Blake likes that an awful lot too. She darts at Yang, and Yang falls back again, laughing.

They circle each other slowly, taking soft, lazy swings, testing each other’s range more than trying to trying to land real hits. Blake studies Yang’s face, and is surprised to see how calculated she looks, cataloguing Blake’ footwork, her angles, the sway of her hips. They fight together so often that Blake wonders what there could be left to learn. But fighting _with_ someone is a different creature than fighting _against_ them. Blake and Yang rarely spar.

Then Yang comes at Blake with a punch, and Blake ducks under it with such fluid ease that she wonders if the two are so different after all. Yang exists on two sides of the same coin in Blake’s heart anyway: Wild and safe, home and mystery, easy love and crackling interest. Yang is a harmony that Blake thought was impossible before her. Blake pivots and throws herself at Yang, but Yang sidesteps, and Blake stumbles forward. Yang catches her by the arm before she falls and pulls her upright.

“Your stance is off,” says Yang. “You’re too easy to knock down right now.”

Blake would have a sharp retort on her tongue if Yang hadn’t just proved herself right. She feels the beginnings of a scowl, sullen and reflexive, but then Yang is pressed up behind her, lightly resting her hands on Blake’s hips and turning them to adjust her stance, and Blake melts.

“Do you feel that?” asks Yang. She’s close enough for Blake to feel her breath on her ear. “The way your balance shifts?”

“Uh huh.” All Blake is thinking about is how Yang’s arms are basically around her. About how if she turned her head, she might be able to kiss Yang on the mouth. Could Yang be thinking about that, too?

“Good.” Yang breathes the word softly. Her fingertips dig into Blake’s hipbones, and Blake feels her breath catch. Then Yang gently releases her and steps away.

“Let’s go again.”

Yang jabs at Blake without warning, and this time, it’s Blake who skips away, Blake who is measuring the breadth of Yang’s style. Blake remembers watching Yang fight the day she’d chosen her as a partner, when they’d officially become RWBY. She’d been so fierce, tearing Grimm apart with bare fists and a roar, and some locked in part of Blake’s soul had thought, _I want to be with her._ Yang doesn’t fight as recklessly as she did in the old days. Her strength still burns like wildfire, but she’s learned to temper it, when to hold it back. It’s made her a better fighter. It means that it’s worthless for Blake to try and look for Yang’s old gaps.

They come together again, two dancers, exchange a flurry of punches, blocking with forearms, leaning out of reach. This time, when Blake dips underneath Yang’s fist, she sweeps her leg at the same time and knocks Yang off course. Yang stumbles, but rolls into a somersault and lands on her feet in a crouch. The smile she wears is crooked.

Yang is stronger than Blake, more strategic, but Blake is faster, and she can be in two places at once. That’s her home advantage, and that’s what she uses next, wisping into shadow clone when Yang swings, flipping behind Yang and driving her elbow into her back. Yang stumbles again with a yelp.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” Yang’s eyes rim in crimson, just for a flash, and Blake covers her mouth with her hand and giggles.

“Your semblance is showing,” Blake points out.

Yang can’t see her own eyes, but she can feel it, that little sizzle in her veins, and the irony makes her sheepish – but not enough to start holding back. She laughs, throaty and alive, and she and Blake grapple again, no tricks, just auras and skin.

Blake has improved in hand to hand since their Beacon days. Yang wonders when she’d been practicing – and with who, and then schools herself not to care. Blake was with her now, and she wasn’t going anywhere. It’s grown into such a constant, having Blake glued to her side, a dawning new ache permeating every word and every touch. It’s been going so smoothly in Atlas that Yang is even daring herself to think of a devastating _someday_ when she looks at Blake sidelong or takes her hand.

(But Atlas _was_ still going, and they needed to go with it. And that included training. Yang was _not_ going to lose her second match in a row today.)

Yang drives towards Blake, and then pivots at the last minute, aiming to twist Blake’s arm behind her back, but Blake scrambles away. Still, Yang has the higher ground now; she can taste it in the air. She comes at Blake fast: Punch, punch, kick, dodge, punch, repeat in variation. When they spring apart again to circle, Blake is breathing hard, and the whistle of victory blows in Yang’s lungs.

“Ready to give up?” Yang teases. She feints at Blake, but doesn’t put much behind it.

Blake only smirks. She shakes the loose strands of hair from her face and beckons to Yang. “Come and get it.”

It’s sexy as hell, and heat floods Yang when Blake says it. It’s a trap that’s impossible to avoid. Yang tries to get inside Blake’s range and land a hit, but Blake is centred, her stance solid. Just like Yang showed her. Blake leaps. Her thighs wrap around Yang, and when she twists, they both come crashing to the ground.

Blake lands on top, straddling Yang. Yang is pinned, breathless, chest heaving.

Blake looks triumphant. “Two crushing defeats in one morning? You’re losing your touch, Xiao Long.”

Blake looks incredible, lit up and laughing, and _shit,_ Yang can’t stop thinking about her legs wrapped around her waist. Yang is suddenly, painfully aware of how turned on she is. Water has been pounding at this dam for weeks now, and Yang feels it starting to crack, yearning to burst.

She does the only thing that feels relevant right now: Yang leans up and kisses Blake. Her hands tangle in Blake’s hair. She tugs her forward and they topple backwards together.

Blake swallows her noise of surprise, because Yang is _kissing_ her, and those two sides of the coin are humming in her heart again. This feels exactly right, like it’s all they’ve ever done, but it’s also making her feel like nothing before. Blake thought she had known attraction, desire, want before. She thought she’d known it with Yang. She’d known _nothing._ Kissing Yang is molten. It’s like hurtling months of longing, on a boat and in Menagerie and by Yang’s side in the snow, to its natural pinpoint of brilliance.

“Yang, I—”

“I know.”

“I want—I’ve wanted—”

“Yeah. Shit. Yeah. Me too.”

Yang releases the fistfuls of Blake’s hair that she’s holding and runs her hands down Blake’s back. It’s just skin underneath. A pulse throbs between Yang’s legs. Blake brings her mouth to Yang’s again and Yang’s hips jerk, her arms wrap around Blake, pull her in closer. They kiss until it doesn’t mean anything anymore, until it means everything, until Yang’s lips feel swollen and her bones feel on fire. Her thumbs hook under the waistband of Blake’s sweatpants. Blake whimpers. The noise rakes through Yang and she tugs at Blake’s clothing; Blake rocks forward to help her, scrambling and eager, and then all Yang feels is skin, Blake’s thighs, skimming inward, getting hotter.

She’s teasing Blake as much as she is mapping ground. Her fingertips explore until Blake starts to squirm, and a tiny, frustrated sound tears from her throat.

 _“Yang._ ”

Blake, unstrung. An absolute killshot. Yang’s fingers slide into Blake, and _oh,_ she’s so wet, and _oh,_ the noise she makes when Yang’s fingers curl. They find their rhythm, and Yang is lost.

Will this change nothing, or will it change everything? Blake is pouring over into Yang’s palms like its inevitable, but there is a boundary shattering between the two of them, crumbling away on the stream of filth spilling from Blake’s lips, washed away in a sea of _fuck me_ and _keep going_ and Yang’s name and Yang’s name and Yang’s name. Yang worships the open field, the Blake-and-Yang and the possibility that stretches out from this moment.

Blake hitches. Her whole body tenses before she comes apart. Yang feels her clench around her before the release and the wave and the ebb. Her soft cries when she comes shudder through Yang – _this_ is the most beautiful thing that she has ever seen, ever heard, ever felt or needed to affirm that she is _alive_.

Blake sags, and Yang reaches for her; cups her cheek and kisses her. Blake catches the kiss and turns her cheek, kisses Yang’s fingertips, still shiny and slick, kisses down her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. Anticipation builds in Yang as she feels Blake move lower: Pressing her lips to the divot of Yang’s hipbone, dragging Yang’s pants halfway down her thighs. She kisses the sensitive skin of Yang’s inner thigh, and Yang lets out a choked gasp. Blake’s tongue flicks out between Yang’s legs and the gasp is buried by her drawn out groan.

“Blake—You—”

“You taste so—”

“ _Fuck._ ” Yang’s head falls back, but then she feels robbed of the sight of Blake’s head between her thighs. She leans up on her elbows, and oh _yeah –_ Blake’s head bobbing, her tongue moving in sure, even strokes, it all drives Yang closer to the edge. Her hips rock, grinding towards Blake’s mouth. She’s not sure how she’s managed to last this long, or really any time at all. She kicks one leg free of her sweatpants and her knee draws up. Blake fills the new space, and the change of pace and pressure makes Yang whine, takes her exactly where she needs to be. Her back arches and she knots one hand in Blake’s hair. Her other hand slaps the ground.

“I’m gonna—I’m so close to— _Blake_!”

Blake’s lips wrap around Yang’s clit and suck, and it undoes Yang. Her hand claws the ground when she comes, nails digging into the soft practice mats. She tugs on Blake’s hair, hard, breath ragged, legs trembling, Blake’s name falling from her lips. It’s good, so good, the flood of a sunburst, semblance crackling through her hair and making her blood sing. Yang comes down panting, and Blake strokes her through it before pillowing her cheek on Yang’s bare thigh.

“At least you’re not a sore loser,” Blake comments in the afterglow.

Yang snorts. “Three more moves and I would have had you,” she says lazily.

“You say that about all the girls.”

“And I’m always right.” Yang’s hand drifts aimlessly through Blake’s hair as she speaks.

“Not always.” Blake lifts her head, meets Yang’s eyes. “You didn’t need three moves. You already had me. You always have.”

Blake may have just had her tongue inside of Yang, but hearing this feels somehow even more incredible. _You are mine, and I am yours, and together, we belong to each other._ There was no someday with them – only an always. No will-they-won’t-they – only will, and when, and this promised moment, half-dressed and lying on the floor and smelling sex in the air.

“You ready for another round?” asks Blake.

“Fighting or fucking?” Yang’s whole body feels pleasantly exhausted, so it doesn’t really matter either way. She feels limp on the floor, like she could sink into it and take the world’s best nap.

Blake smirks. “Either way.”

Yang closes her eyes, her fingers still running through Blake’s hair. “Babe, I don’t want to do anything resembling cardio for at least an hour.”

“Fair enough.” Blake laughs softly. “Should we hit the showers?”

“Oh.” Yang’s hand stills in Blake’s hair. It’s not a bad idea. “Probably.”

Neither of them budges. Yang resumes carding Blake’s hair, idle, relaxed, Blake’s breath warm on her thigh. It’s too peaceful here, the echo of their breathing in the empty training room, the new cord of knowledge and desire weaving them closer together. Yang could name Blake as a lover today, and it wouldn’t feel hollow, and she wouldn’t cringe.

Yang winds a lock of Blake’s hair around her fingertips. Shorter now, but still lovely. Blake carries herself lighter wearing it, has let herself be drawn to what’s next and what’s new – and what’s always led to Yang. It’s just a haircut, but it tells a story. They’re just two huntresses, barely more than girls, but that tells a story, too.

She thinks it might have a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! shoutouts to [catalyswitch](https://catalyswitch.tumblr.com/) and [powerbottomblake](https://powerbottomblake.tumblr.com/) for hits of inspiration. and one very special anon...
> 
> yes everyone left the room, don't worry about it!!


End file.
